


Fire And Water

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fellowship of the Ring, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6194779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo becomes ill as they travel down the river Anduin.  No side plot, just pure hurt/comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own the Fellowship. They belong to JRR Tolkien and I’m just bending the tale a wee bit. This is a non-profit fanfic.
> 
> The tale is dedicated to Frodo-Baggins-of-Bag-End, who gave me the story prompt.

They turned the boats for shore when Aragorn signalled that he had found a good landing spot. Sam looked back to see Frodo’s head bowed on his chest. How he was staying upright he could not guess but it was obvious that his master was fast asleep. Sam looked over Frodo’s shoulder at the tall ranger paddling in the back.

“He’s asleep,” he announced in as loud a whisper as he dared.

Aragorn nodded. “For several hours. I shall try not to wake him when we land. He will have little enough sleep soon,” he replied grimly.

Sam turned forward again, somewhat sheepishly. He had been so wrapped up in his own discomfort at being trapped in these rather unstable vessels that he had not taken thought for Frodo. It seemed that the closer they came to their goal the wearier the Ringbearer became and Sam berated himself silently for not taking care of his master as he had promised. He also felt some guilt that Aragorn had apparently been paddling the boat all on his own for some time.

The shore drew closer quickly, although not soon enough for Sam, and Aragorn beached the boat gently before jumping out and drawing it further up onto the grassy bank. Frodo hardly stirred and as soon as he felt stable earth beneath the keel Sam stood and unrolled a blanket to wrap around him. Strider helped and then lifted the sleeping hobbit gently into his arms and carried him ashore, laying him out of the breeze in the lee of a large boulder. Sam moved to his side at once, adding more blankets.

As soon as Boromir beached their boat Merry and Pippin leapt out and started hurrying purposefully towards the trees, a large luncheon beginning to make certain demands upon their bodies. They jumped back as Legolas’ arm shot across their path. He pointed to a patch of low growing ivy just in front of them.

“Try not to step in that. If you get any of the sap in an open cut it could make you very unwell.”

Whilst both hobbits were pretty sure they had no cuts in their feet they decided upon caution and skirted the offending patch, before walking somewhat stiffly to a patch of low bushes.

Smiling, the elf took up his usual post as lookout, standing atop the rock that sheltered Frodo and making a methodical scan of the trees on this side of the river and those of the opposite shoreline. Having seen to his master Sam turned his attention to their supper.

“Can we have a fire, Mr Strider?”

Aragorn hid a smile as he turned. Even after all these weeks Sam still occasionally reverted to calling him Strider. Aragorn found that he did not mind. There was a comfortable friendliness in it that warmed him.

“Not in the dark, Sam. Perhaps tomorrow morning. A fire would be seen from too great a distance. We will have to make do with cold rations tonight.”

Sam made no protest, although when Merry and Pippin returned the young Took wrinkled his nose at the cup of cold liquid he was offered. His face brightened considerably however, when he took a sip and found it to be some of the same cordial they had drunk at luncheon in Lothlorien. In fact Sam produced a large basket of fresh food which looked to be the leftovers from that meal and Boromir shot him a questioning look as he tucked into a slice of finely cooked venison. Sam blushed and went on the defensive.

“I saw they was clearin’ it up so I asked if we could take it. They filled the basket. Seems daft to go onto trail rations when we don’t have to.”

Merry laughed quietly. “Sam Gamgee, you’re a marvel.”

Sam’s blush deepened. 

Pippin looked over to where his cousin lay oblivious, rolled in his blankets. “Shouldn’t we wake Frodo?”

“No. Let him sleep. He has a long hard journey ahead of him,” Aragorn replied.

Pippin’s face fell. All the while they had been in Lorien he had been able to pretend that they were on a simple outing. Even on the river, the experience had been new enough to distract him from the purpose of their journey. But Aragorn’s words brought the reason to the front of the little hobbit’s mind and suddenly dinner did not seem so appetising.

Merry noticed his young cousin’s expression and tried to lighten the mood.

“On your own head be it, Aragorn. Cousin Frodo is not going to be very happy when he finds out that he missed a meal.” His comment was met with a chorus of soft laughter from his companions.

o0o

 

“Come on now, Mr Frodo. Sorry sir but it’s time to wake up.” Sam touched his master gently on the shoulder and Frodo stirred drowsily in his warm cocoon of blankets. Blue eyes opened slowly and he disentangled a hand to cover a large yawn.

“Have we landed?” Even as he asked Frodo realised that he was lying on his side in a grey pre dawn light. A little distance beyond Sam he could see Gimli setting a pot of water on a small fire. Merry’s voice broke into his bleary confusion.

“We landed hours ago, cousin. You have slept the night away and missed an excellent supper, courtesy of Master Samwise Gamgee, supplier of high quality provender.” He gave a mock bow in Sam’s direction.

Frodo smiled and sat up, shrugging off an assortment of blankets. “Do you mean to tell me that I missed a meal? Sam. How could you?” He watched Sam’s face closely, his smile widening into a grin when his friend’s expression grew contrite.

“I’m sorry, Mr Frodo,” he stammered, “But Mr Strider . . . er . . . Aragorn . . . said as how you needed your sleep. And you looked so peaceful, sir. I just didn’t have the heart . . .” His voice trailed off and Frodo giggled, reaching out to drop a hand on his shoulder, his face growing serious.

“I’m only joking Sam. I shouldn’t do that at your expense and I’m sorry. It was very kind of you to let me sleep and I must admit that I feel better for it.” He smacked his lips. “Although I must confess that I am rather hungry now.”

Aragorn’s voice interrupted and Frodo glanced across to where the ranger was stowing their goods back in the boats. 

“We have time for a warm drink but then we must be on our way. We can eat in the boats as we travel.”

Sam grimaced. His stomach had felt rebellious enough having eaten before they set out yesterday. He was not at all sure what it would do if he tried to force food upon it whilst in the boat. But there was nothing for it. He was liability enough that they did not dare trust him with a paddle. He could not hold them up because of an over sensitive stomach too. Frodo’s hand on his shoulder gave an understanding squeeze.

“Maybe you’ll feel better today, Sam,” he murmured. “Perhaps Aragorn will have something that will help in his supply of herbs.”

“I’ll be alright, Mr Frodo. Don’t you worry none about me.” Sam squared his shoulders and rose to help with the stowing, leaving his master to unravel himself from the rest of his blankets. Once disentangled, Frodo rolled his blankets tightly and helped with the loading, then accepted gratefully the cup of warm herb broth that Pippin offered.

He was so busy with the preparations that it was not until they were all ready to embark that his body made its needs felt. As he turned and walked off into the woods, to find a convenient spot Aragorn’s voice followed him.

“Do not be too long, Frodo.”

Frodo started to jog and then thought better of it, walking as quickly as his over stretched bladder would allow. Just out of sight of the shore he yelped at a sharp pain in the sole of his right foot. Dropping down on a nearby log he lifted his foot to investigate. The soles of hobbit feet are quite leathery but not impervious to hurt and Frodo found a large, needle-fine thorn in his heel. He snatched it out, relieved to find that it was so fine that it drew only a small bead of blood which he wiped it off and, limping for only a few steps, continued on his way.

Having taken care of the necessary business as quickly as he could and washed his hands in a nearby stream he ran back to the boats, the minor injury in his foot forgotten. He was mildly annoyed when some ground covering ivy entangled his feet just at the tree line, but he managed to break free quickly enough and jumped into the boat with a mumbled apology to Aragorn, as he settled himself and took up an oar.

The small boats pushed off into the broad river just as the upper rim of the sun’s disk cleared the horizon.


	2. Chapter 2

While everyone else seemed to enjoy a hearty breakfast of bread and fruit, Sam ate naught but a bit of apple and even that he shared with Frodo. The younger hobbit perched in the very centre of his seat, hands clenching white knuckled at the sides. Sitting behind him, Frodo could see him shaking a little and when Sam turned to glance to the side his master felt compassion surge within him when he saw the pale face.

Frodo felt a light tap on his shoulder and looked back to find Aragorn holding out a small wooden box. The ranger nodded at Sam in the prow.

“Give him a piece of this. It is candied ginger.”

Frodo smiled gratefully as he accepted the box and opened it, leaning forward to his friend. 

“Sam. Try a bit of this. It will settle your stomach.”

Sam turned carefully and peered suspiciously into the box, his face showing relief when he recognised the contents. Candied ginger was a remedy often used in the Shire for nausea and he selected one of the larger pieces and popped it into his mouth before turning back nervously to face forward. 

“Thank you, Mr Frodo.”

Frodo rubbed his friend’s back gently and handed the box back to Aragorn. He could understand Sam’s predicament for his own stomach was beginning to dislike the motion of the boat . . . although it had felt alright the previous day. Putting his discomfort down to the early start, Frodo picked up his paddle once more. His body had never been very good at dealing with mornings.

By lunchtime Frodo was quite pleased when Aragorn, in deference to Sam’s stomach, decided to pull in to shore for a while. The Ringbearer’s own innards were disquieted and the constant sitting in one position was giving him pins and needles in his right foot. While the rest of the party tucked into a hearty meal Frodo found himself sitting on the edge of the clearing with Sam . . . sharing a little bread and some cool water.

Frodo stretched out his right leg and wiggled his toes in an attempt to rid himself of the uncomfortable tingling in his foot. Even in his miserable condition the movement was not lost on Sam.

“Are you alright, Mr Frodo?”

His master only chuckled. “I think that the folks in Hobbiton are right and hobbits and boats are not made for each other.” He made an attempt to stretch some of the kinks out of his back and shoulders. 

"I think that if we have to paddle much farther today my shoulders will seize up completely and I shall lose all feeling in my bottom from that hard bench. And my foot seems to be going to sleep. Who would imagine that elves could create such an uncomfortable conveyance?” Frodo chuckled.

“Not that I need my foot much when I’m paddling but I have got used to it being there on the end of my leg and it is disconcerting when I can’t feel it.”

“Are you feeling unwell too, Frodo?” came Aragorn’s voice from behind them. Both hobbits jumped. For a big person, it seemed to Sam, that the man could move far too quietly.

The Ringbearer took a large swallow of water before replying, hoping that he would look healthy. Aragorn had dosed him with one or two different herbal remedies after Weathertop and the only thing that Frodo remembered for certain about them was that they tasted unpleasant. He pasted on a bright smile before looking up at the tall ranger, who had moved to stand before him now.

“I am quite well, thank you Aragorn. I think my stomach is just not used to the motion of the boats yet.”

Their leader looked as though he was going to say more but instead he simply hunkered down and offered each the open box of candied ginger. Both hobbits took a bit gratefully.

The afternoon passed uneventfully, apart from a moment of panic when Frodo dropped his paddle. Unused to such exercise, his hands were joining the protest of his foot and beginning to tingle. Hardly surprising, Frodo thought, when he saw the blisters beginning to form on his palms. 

When they made camp for the evening Aragorn applied a liberal amount of salve to the palms of all three of the hobbit paddlers for they were all developing blisters. Men, elf and dwarf were long used to handling weapons and their palms found no difference between axe, sword or paddle but the only hobbit used to manual labour was the only one that could not be trusted with a paddle . . . Sam. 

Lying in his blankets Frodo clenched and unclenched his fists a few times. The salve numbed the blisters and cooled the skin but he could still feel that annoying tingle in his fingers and now he seemed to have it in both feet. His stomach was unhappy enough to send him to his bed without supper too. With a deep sigh he rolled onto his side and snuggled into his blankets. Boats. All very well for a nice afternoon fishing on the gentle Brandywine. Not as much fun after several hours paddling in a swift flowing current.

o0o

Frodo awoke to the sounds of murmured conversation and opened sleep-fogged eyes to another watery grey predawn morning. His hands and feet still tingled but the blisters no longer hurt and when he investigated his palms he found they were no longer red and hot. Getting up, he joined the others at the meagre fire and Sam offered him a mug of thin hot broth and a chunk of slightly stale bread. It was fairly tasteless but as Frodo’s stomach was still protesting it was about all he could cope with anyway. He rubbed his neck to try and alleviate a slight headache. No matter how long they travelled he still missed the feather mattresses and pillows of Bag End and even Lorien could not compete.

Frodo sipped his broth carefully and smiled across the small fire at Sam. “How is your stomach this morning, Sam?”

“Much better, thank you, Mr Frodo. I’m alright as long as I stay away from boats but it don’t seem like that’s possible at the moment.”

Aragorn passed him the candied ginger without comment and, with a rueful smile, the hobbit tucked a piece in his cheek.

Within half an hour they were on their way once more. Frodo began to have problems almost at once, however, dropping his paddle twice within a few yards. Fortunately Legolas and Gimli were travelling downstream of them and the elf snagged it easily as it floated by, holding position until Aragorn brought his boat alongside.

Frodo was quite embarrassed. The salve Aragorn had spread on his palms the evening before had certainly taken the pain out of his blisters but also seemed to numb his hands a little. He decided to accept his companion’s jibes good-humouredly. Aragorn had meant kindly after all.

By mid day Frodo was beginning to wish that he could rub some of that salve inside his head for it was throbbing mercilessly and the paddling was making him uncomfortably hot. He paused, finally, and removed both cloak and jacket, taking up the paddle again quickly when Aragorn’s voice came at his back.

“Are you feeling unwell, Frodo?”

“No. I was just getting overly hot. I’m afraid I’m more used to wielding a pen than a paddle.” He tried a laugh, hoping that he sounded convincing. The Fellowship was there to help him, not carry him and he was determined to pull his own weight. He could not help being quite relieved when the Ranger called a rest break about an hour later, however.

Sam hopped out as soon as the boat touched land and Aragorn joined him at once, helping to pull the craft up the gently sloping shingle bank. Frodo rose more slowly, his legs stiff from sitting still for so long and any sudden movement making him screw up his face against the pounding in his head.

He clambered slowly to the front of the boat and stepped gingerly ashore, holding on to the prow for a moment, while he tried to steady himself on leaden feet.

“I think you had better sit down for a little while, Frodo.” The little hobbit found Aragorn hunkering down at his side and he squinted at the ranger through eyes screwed up against the piercing sunlight. A large cool hand came to rest upon his brow and it would have been a comfort were it not for the fact that even that slight pressure exacerbated the drumming at his temples all but forcing him to pull away.

“This way, Frodo.” Merry wrapped a welcome arm around his cousin’s shoulders and Frodo leaned into his support as he was led slowly away to sit next to Sam upon a blanket.

The big folk gathered about the boats, ostensibly to unpack some food.

“What ails our Ringbearer?” Boromir wasted no time. The last thing they needed was a sickly Ringbearer and it was clear to him that these little folk were not intended for such hardships. It was not their fault but Elrond’s decision to let a hobbit take the Ring was foolhardy. Not entirely unexpected, however. Hobbits were easily controlled by elf-friendly wizard and elf-raised would-be-king, without them actually realising that elves were in control.

“He looks very pale. Perhaps he too suffers from a dislike of boats,” offered Legolas mildly. Gimli merely leaned upon his axe and frowned.

“He seems to have a fever but there is no congestion in his lungs. It may just be the change of climate,” replied Aragorn. “It will probably pass in a few hours with rest and a little something for the headache.”

“A headache?” Boromir’s tone showed all too clearly his opinion of someone who would be laid so low by something as ‘petty’ as a headache. “Should we not send him back to the Golden Wood with his companions? It is not a long journey and we four can then move much more swiftly,” suggested Boromir. “You cannot be considering letting him go on to Mordor when he is ill.”

Aragorn’s steel grey eyes met his steadily. “The decision is not mine to make. Frodo is the Ringbearer and it is he who makes the choice of whether or not to go on.”

“Then I trust his next decision will be wiser than his more recent ones. As I remember it, we ended up losing one of the more valuable members of our Fellowship as a result of his last choice.” The son of the Steward turned and stalked off into the woods before Aragorn could frame a suitable retort.

Gimli sighed and hefted his axe. “If you are to prepare medicines you will doubtless need a fire. I shall find you some dry wood.” He too left the riverbank, striking off in a similar direction to Boromir with a knowing glance at Legolas.

Legolas’ voice was pitched at a level only Aragorn could hear. “How long will it be, do you think? Before we all fall under its power.”

The ranger shook his head and paused to pull his pack from the boat before crossing to where the four hobbits huddled together.


	3. Chapter 3

Frodo was leaning against Merry’s shoulder, his eyes tightly closed and his cousin’s arm wrapped about him protectively. Pippin was pouring cold water into a cup, before handing it to a still rather green hued Sam.

Aragorn settled upon the blanket before them, with a small smile. “What a sorry sight we have here.” He intercepted the cup being passed to Sam and rummaged in his pack for a moment before adding a couple of drops of clear liquid. “Here, Sam. This should finally settle your stomach. Have something light to eat and then I want you rolled in your blankets and sleeping. We can afford to rest here until tomorrow morning.”

When Sam glanced at his master and made to refuse the cup, the man frowned in a way all too reminiscent of Elrond. “I will accept no arguments, Sam. Frodo will be well cared for, you have my promise.”

At his words, Frodo forced open his eyes, turning to his friend. His voice was thin but carried more weight because of it . . . the effort required to say anything at all more than evident. “Take it Sam. The others will look after me. I need you whole and hale.” 

The last words were the ones that finally shamed Sam into swallowing the drink. He would be more use to his master, if he himself felt better.

Aragorn turned his attention now to the Ringbearer. “What ails you, Frodo? I can feel a fever and I suspect you have a headache. Is anything else the matter?”

Frodo let his head rest against his cousin once more, squeezing his eyes shut against the harsh sunlight. “The headache is the worst.”

Merry came to the man’s aid . . . long used to his cousin’s delicate ways of side-stepping when asked about any illness. In the first years after his parent’s death he had heard that Frodo suffered many illnesses, intense grief making him an easy victim. By the time Merry was of an age to understand his older cousin, Frodo was a normal, healthy hobbit, but when he did fall ill he still hated to admit it.

“That’s not what Aragorn asked, Frodo. And well you know it. This is not my mother asking about a dose of the sniffles. You are very poorly and we need to get you well as soon as possible. So stop trying to hide away and tell us what we can do.”

Stung into compliance by Merry’s admonition, Frodo straightened up and faced Aragorn squarely.

“I’m sorry, Aragorn. In truth I don’t know where to start. “I have an awful headache and I feel hot one minute and cold the next. I seem to have pins and needles in my hands and feet and my right foot feels sore. Although I suspect the soreness is nothing to worry about. I stepped on a thorn.”

Aragorn ran his hand down Frodo’s calf and took the right heel in his palm, lifting it gently while Merry supported his cousin again. What he saw there made him frown and he turned to where Legolas stood upon the branch of a long dead tree, surveying the land about them. “Legolas. Would you come here please? I think I need the benefit of your knowledge.”

The elf leapt down lightly and knelt at Aragorn’s side, with a gentle smile to the hobbit. The man lifted Frodo’s foot into the light for Legolas to see. “Your eyesight is better than mine but I think I see a light rash on the sole around that small puncture wound. What do you make of it?”

Slender fingers ran across Frodo’s sole so lightly that the leathery skin did not register the touch. Yet, a cool balm seemed to follow in their wake and Frodo sighed in relief. The sound of the elf’s voice was as soothing as his touch, even though it was difficult to concentrate on the content with the pounding in his head. 

“He has stepped in Fireleaf. It must have been the other morning, for I noticed a large patch near our campsite. It is a wonder he was not overcome sooner.”

“Aye. Hobbits are stubborn creatures and Baggins’ more so than most,” Aragorn replied.

Merry could feel Frodo leaning more heavily on him and moved to draw him closer as Legolas lowered the injured foot. “Is it serious? You said it could make us very ill. How ill?” He stroked Frodo’s arm, concerned when his cousin did not ask these questions himself.

Aragorn took one of Frodo’s wrists in his fingers, counting the pulse there, so it was Legolas who replied.

“To a man or an elf it is uncomfortable and unpleasant, but I do not know how it will affect hobbits. Your bodies are smaller.”

“On the other hand, as Frodo has proved before, he is stubborn and I do not see him surrendering readily,” Aragorn replied.

Frodo found that he could no longer focus on the words, which wavered disturbingly in and out of his consciousness, because a strange burning sensation had started within his chest. He began to panic as it built and built but before he could voice his distress the world fell away. He tumbled slowly into Merry’s lap, his breathing shallow and his face almost grey.

Pippin cried out in alarm, reaching out a hand in vain attempt to catch his cousin and for a moment all the others froze. Then there was a flurry of activity as Aragorn took control.

“Pippin, see to Sam. Legolas, set out Frodo’s blanket and add any you can find from the other packs. Sam . . . go and lie down before that sleeping draught I gave you makes you fall over too.”

Merry cradled his cousin tenderly as Aragorn thumbed open an eyelid and bent to listen to Frodo’s chest. Sam still sat mulishly at their side, eyes fixed upon his master’s still features. Pippin spread out a blanket and had to all but drag him up. “Come on, Sam. Aragorn needs all his attention on Frodo.” That was all he needed to say to persuade Sam to allow himself to be shepherded away.

Soon Frodo was wrapped gently in blankets by Gimli’s hastily constructed fire and Aragorn was in quiet conversation with Legolas while the two sorted through a selection of tiny packets and boxes from the man’s medicinal supplies.

“I have seen Fireleaf, but never encountered its effects, firsthand. What are the symptoms of the poisoning?” Aragorn asked, glancing across to check that Sam was asleep. 

Legolas followed his gaze, smiling as he watched Pippin trying to remove the jacket of a deeply asleep hobbit . . . no mean feat when noting that Sam had managed to regain all of his ample girth during their stay in Lothlorien and Pippin was the smallest of their group.

“The main symptoms are already evident. Fever, headache, tingling in the limbs and some loss of feeling in the extremities. There are more extreme cases, where they have worsened to cause a temporary light paralysis. Only once have I actually seen it progress that far, however, and the elf recovered well over two or three days.”

Aragorn nodded, laying aside several packets and tinctures and closing his small herbal. “The paralysis worries me. Hobbits have proved themselves a hardy folk but in their smaller bodies that could lead to breathing difficulties.” 

The two returned to the fire, where Gimli was heating water in one of Sam’s precious pans. Legolas wondered wryly what Sam would think of such a liberty, but then, as it was for his master’s benefit, it was unlikely he would truly object. Indeed his only caveate would probably be that he was not the one looking after Frodo.

Satisfied that he had done all he could to help for the moment, the elven warrior returned to his post as lookout, exchanging a nod with a thoughtful Boromir as the man relinquished his recently acquired position atop a boulder.

At somewhat of a loose end, the son of the steward settled down nearby and began to inspect his sword, unwrapping an oiled rag from his pack and sliding it up and down the length of the weapon.

From his position at Frodo’s side Merry shuddered at the slightly menacing sight. The keenly edged sword was almost as long as Merry was tall.


	4. Chapter 4

Frodo’s next awareness was of voices, although they were almost drowned out by a very loud and persistent drumming. For some moments his mind returned to a place of shadows and stone, where a nest of foul creatures pursued him through endless halls. It was some time before he realised that the drumming was actually in his head and only then was he able to bring the voices beyond into echoing focus.

“We need to take turns watching him. If the paralysis affects his chest he may have difficulty breathing. If anyone notices him struggling inform me immediately.” It was Aragorn’s voice and for a moment Frodo wondered who he was talking about. Who had been paralysed? He made to rise . . . and frowned when his arms refused to support him.

“He’s waking up.” That was Boromir’s voice, quite close by. Too close for Frodo’s liking. Of late he had noticed a strange look in the eyes of the son of the Steward and he suspected he knew what put it there. He tried to move his hand to check that the ring was still beneath his shirt but frowned again when he was thwarted by his arm’s uncoordinated response.

“Can you open your eyes, Frodo?” That was Aragorn’s voice again, closer this time and gentle, as it had been on Weathertop. If Aragorn was close the Ring was safe for the moment and Frodo relaxed a little.

He swallowed and then grimaced. There was an unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth which persuaded him not to do that again unless absolutely necessary.

Aragorn spoke again and Frodo felt a hand upon his shoulder, although the sensation was one of being touched through a hundred layers of blanket.

“Frodo?”

It was apparent he was not going to be left alone with his headache so, with a concerted effort, Frodo dragged open heavy eyelids, blinking owlishly for several moments as he tried to make sense of the view. He was unused to waking up to the image of a boot right by his nose, he told himself. That must be the reason for his difficulty focussing.

He swallowed again with some difficulty, as his tongue appeared to be too big for his mouth. “Thomebody undo all theath blankeths. I can’t move,” he demanded peevishly. He had certainly been cold earlier but they had no reason to swaddle him like a new born babe. As though to refute that thought his body was assailed by a bout of violent shivering and any words spoken in reply were unheard above the chattering of his own teeth.

By the time the shivering stopped he was exhausted and it took some minutes more before he realised he was now being cradled in Legolas’ lap. Beneath his ear he could feel the steady beat of an elven heart but it only served as counterpoint to the violent drumming in his head. “What ith happening,” was all he could murmur as he tried to bury closer to his supporters’ warmth.

For answer a tin cup appeared in his line of vision and Legolas’ soft voice came from above him. “Try to drink some of this, Tithen Pen. It will ease your headache.” The rim touched his lips and he inhaled the faint scent of apples and honey. The taste was clean and sweet, washing away the copper and settling gently in his stomach. By the time he reached the bottom his headache was already subsiding and that’s when he finally looked about him.

He was the focus of attention for the entire fellowship and he was sure that had he the energy to do so he would be blushing furiously. They were all sitting around a little campfire but nobody was eating. He squinted at Aragorn, who was closest. “Did I fall asleep again?” Peripherally, he noted that his tongue had returned to its normal size.

But even as he asked he knew he was deluding himself. The blanket draped around him was not tightly wrapped, so he should have been able to move his arms easily but all he could manage was a twitch. And although diminishing he knew the headache was not his normal state of being. Indeed, he had not been prone to headaches since he was a tween.

Aragorn shook his head, passing the empty cup to Pippin who ran off to rinse it in the river. “You have been unconscious for some hours. How do you feel now?”

Frodo tried to take full stock of his body. “I had an awful headache but it’s fading now. Thank you for the drink.” Once more he tried to move his hand. “But I can’t seem to move my arms and legs very well.” He determinedly swallowed back a growing panic. “What is happening to me, Aragorn?”

This time it was Legolas who spoke. “Do you have a metallic taste in your mouth?”

Frodo turned up his face to stare into the elf’s beautiful features, almost at once drawing peace from those calm blue eyes. “Like sucking copper coins,” he confessed, “Although it’s not so bad at present.”

Legolas dimpled. “A graphic image. I had a friend who described it in much the same way.”

Aragorn drew Frodo’s attention away. “On our first morning out from Lothlorien you ran into the woods to answer a call of nature. Do you remember the ivy by the tree line?”

Frodo had a vague memory of hearing this conversation before and began to wish everyone would simply reach whatever point they were attempting to make. He was uncomfortable and it had the effect of shortening his usually equable temper. Although the drink seemed to steady him, he was beginning to feel too hot again and would really like to remove the blanket, had he but control of his arms. “Yes. I nearly tripped in it if you must know. But what has that to do with anything?” 

“The plant is called Fireleaf and it is poisonous if the sap enters an open wound.” Aragorn’s words fell into his mind, spreading ripples of comprehension and memory in their wake.

“The thorn in my foot.”

Aragorn only nodded.

“Is it . . . is it deadly?”

Aragorn’s reply was firm. “Not usually and certainly not if I can help it. Although you will be uncomfortable for a while.”

Frodo began to suspect that Aragorn had his foster father’s gift of understatement at times like this. Uncomfortable did not begin to define the way he was feeling.

“We’ll look after you, cousin,” came Merry’s familiar voice at his shoulder. “Aragorn here kept you going after Weathertop. He’s already shown us he knows a thing or two about healing and it seems Legolas does as well. He says this Fireleaf stuff grows where he lives so he’s seen people treated for it.”

Frodo began to feel something growing within him too . . . a fiery bubbling, like a pan on the boil, it burned outward from the centre of his chest. “Aragorn!” was all he managed to say before he was thrown into another bout of trembling that robbed him of sight. Distantly he knew his back was arching as muscles went into agonising spasms that set his limbs flailing wildly. He heard a yelp and his last remnant of conscious thought was that he hoped he had not struck Legolas.


	5. Chapter 5

“He clearly cannot go on.” Boromir set down his empty cup. “Aragorn and I should take the ring and finish the mission while the rest of you remain here to care for our erstwhile Ringbearer.”

Sam bristled but it was Aragorn who spun about angrily from where he had just finished wiping Frodo clean. “We have had this conversation before. Frodo Baggins is our Ringbearer and will remain so until either he or the Ring is destroyed. Now that we no longer have Gandalf I will not abandon him, but if you wish to return to Minas Tirith to see to its defence you are welcome to do so. As I remember it, your only promise was to accompany us for as long as our roads lay together. Perhaps you consider now would be a good time to part ways.”

Boromir surged to his feet. Sam blinked and shrank back. He did not think he had ever heard the dour ranger make such a long speech in all of their weeks of travel together. Nor had he ever heard him so angry. Everyone held their breath, aware that if these two warriors came to blows the outcome was by no means certain. They were in literal danger of fulfilling Galadriel’s statement about the quest standing upon a knife edge. When he saw Aragorn’s hand hover ever closer to his sword pommel Sam edged nearer to his master, ready to throw his body in the way of any stray blows if need be.

For what seemed like an eternity Boromir and Aragorn locked gazes. It was Boromir who eventually capitulated, nonchalantly bending to pick up his cup. “I vowed to accompany the fellowship until we drew near to my city. We have many miles yet to travel. We of the line of the Stewards always keep our oath, Ranger.” It was not an apology, nor did it seek to acknowledge Aragorn’s leadership. But Aragorn obviously deemed it sufficient for he breathed out slowly and turned back to his charge. 

Somewhere a bird broke into song and the very air seemed to relax. Sam noticed Gimli returning a small knife to its hidden sheath in his boot and Legolas dropped the arrow he had grabbed, before continuing to wrap Frodo in a fresh blanket. Merry and Pippin carried their cousin’s garments and blanket to the river to wash them in the shallows. It was with some surprise a few minutes later that they saw Boromir constructing a frame of branches near the fire to enable Merry and Pippin to spread Frodo’s clothes to dry. Sam had little time to muse on it however as he helped make his master more comfortable.

“He bears watching more closely,” murmured Legolas, almost sub vocally, as he balled up his own blanket to form a pillow for their charge.

“Despite appearances of late, Boromir is a man of honour. His oath will hold a while yet. Perhaps it is his great love for the people of Minas Tirith that makes him an easier target for the Ring.” Aragorn raised Frodo’s head a little to allow Legolas to slip the makeshift pillow into place.

“Or simply his pride. I have heard tales of the line of the Stewards,” Legolas stated ominously. “It is said some consider themselves more worthy to rule than any king who may come forward to wrest power from them.”

Not altogether sure what was being discussed, Sam held his peace as he shook out another blanket and Aragorn helped to tuck it closely about Frodo’s still form.

“Pride is not the exclusive province of Men,” was Aragorn’s slightly chiding reply and Sam noticed that the elven prince of Mirkwood swiftly changed the topic of conversation.

“I have never seen Fireleaf produce convulsions before. Is it his small frame do you think?”

Aragorn nodded. “It was what troubled me earlier. His fever is greater than I believe is usual and that is what caused the convulsions. If it strengthens again we must cool him. But I am more fearful of a weakening of his respiration.”

Sam’s voice sounded thin even in his own ears. “Is he going to be alright? He’s come through so much.”

Strider laid a warm hand on the little gardener’s shoulder. “We will watch his every breath.” Then he smiled. “Indeed, you shall take the first watch. The company will have to endure my culinary skills for once.”

It seemed that their conversation had not been as private as they had wished however for from his place at the fire behind them Merry announced, “Oh no. Even my efforts at cooking are better than Strider’s. I shall play chef tonight.”

Sam doubted he could swallow anything himself, no matter who cooked.

Pippin’s eyes were wide and he grimaced as he added, “And I think you should look after Legolas. That eye is swelling already and he’ll need cold compresses for . . .” He paused, obviously searching for a polite way to phrase his comment. “For the other injury.”

Gimli let out a hoot, despite the gravity of the situation. “Aye. If he ever wants to walk upright again.”

oOo

Frodo was trapped in a nightmare from which there seemed no escape. He was stumbling across the bridge of Khazad Dum, flames at his back. Ahead of him, on the far side, the rest of his companions gathered, wildly beckoning him on. But he seemed to be running through treacle and where was Gandalf? A calm corner of his mind remembered that Bilbo used to complain about Gandalf tending to disappear at the most inconvenient times.

He glanced over his shoulder to discover that his pursuer was only yards behind but the smell his own clothes beginning to singe still could not lend enough urgency to his dragging feet. He had never even heard of a balrog until scant minutes ago and now he was certain he was about to be consumed by one. Shadow and flame, Gandalf had called it but for Frodo, at this moment, there seemed to be more flame than shadow. One more stride and Frodo screamed as huge arms reached from behind, clasping him so tightly to a fiery chest that he could no longer breathe. 

The agony of blistering skin and having no air in his lungs to even shout out his pain was almost worse than his nightmares after Weathertop. And now, just as then, struggle as he may, he could find no escape.


	6. Chapter 6

“Strider!” Sam patted Frodo’s face in dismay. “He’s not breathing!” Then he yelped in shock, struggling as he was suddenly lifted away from his master; until he realised that it was Legolas that held him and that Aragorn was now taking his place at Frodo’s side.

The ranger leaned close, placing his cheek to Frodo’s lips. Then he began urgently stripping away the blankets to roll Frodo onto his chest. “Sam’s right! This is what I feared.” 

“Are you going to try breathing for him?” asked Legolas as he released a now compliant Sam.

“I watched Elrond do this once.” Aragorn scrambled to kneel at Frodo’s head. Throwing aside Legolas’ makeshift pillow he turned Frodo’s face to the side before quickly bending his arms and folding small hands beneath their owner’s cheek.

“But have you ever actually performed the procedure yourself?” the elf asked urgently.

Aragorn only graced him with a swift wry smile.

Legolas rolled his eyes before warning, “Remember his size,” as Aragorn pressed gently upon Frodo’s shoulder blades then slipped his hands to the upper arms, slowly drawing them towards him. 

Legolas bent to drop his hand by Frodo’s mouth as Aragorn repeated the procedure. “It is working. I can feel the air leave his lips,” he announced.

“Clever,” Gimli stated with a note of respect.

There was a collective sigh and Sam glanced around to discover himself surrounded by the entire fellowship. Pippin’s voice betrayed his youth as he sobbed. “Is he going to die?” Merry slipped an arm about his shoulders.

“Not this time I think, laddie,” Gimli replied, shaking his head. “It seems our ranger knows a trick or two.”

“I have heard tell of such a procedure but never did I think to see it performed.” Boromir’s voice contained awe and disbelief mixed in equal quantities.

Throughout this exchange Aragorn had kept up a steady rhythm, his whole attention upon his charge. “I do not know how long we will need to breathe for him. We may need to take turns at this.”

“I’ll have a go,” offered Sam immediately. 

“Me too,” “And me,” followed from Merry and Pippin with not a heartbeat between them.

Legolas only squeezed Aragorn’s shoulder even as Gimli and, finally, Boromir stepped up to the mark. 

“Good. Ten minutes each I think,” Aragorn announced as he pulled gently on Frodo’s arms. “Legolas will take over from me. The rest of you watch for a while to be sure you understand how to do this. We big folk need to remember how small a hobbit is. They are a sturdy folk but their bones are proportionately finer and, if broken, will prevent us from continuing.”

Legolas stripped off his quiver and dropped gracefully to his knees at Aragorn’s side. In an almost seamless move he and the man swapped places and the elf was now breathing for Frodo. 

Aragorn climbed to his feet, rubbing his arms for a moment. “Decide what order you wish to work in and,” here he turned to Sam “No matter how long you think you can continue, do not exceed ten minutes. We do not know how long we may need to do this and ten minutes will ensure that you have enough strength to take another turn later.”

Sam looked as though he would argue but Merry touched his arm gently. “He knows what he’s talking about, Sam. Trust him in this.”

Aragorn or Legolas monitored the others at first but everyone found that it was not as difficult as they had assumed although more physically taxing than they had imagined. Over the next two hours each member of the fellowship took their turn without protest, even Boromir. 

Although Frodo’s body still burned with fever, with their combined help he breathed and there was only one more attack of convulsions. Through it all, when he was not assisting his master to breathe, Sam bathed him in cool water to prevent any further convulsions or draped him in blankets when he shivered.

It was while Boromir knelt to take his second turn that Frodo moaned softly. It was little more than a tainted breath but at once, Legolas pulled the warrior’s large hands away. 

“Wait. Let us see if he can take a breath by himself.” It was his keen eye that first noted the barely perceptible movement of Frodo’s chest. Sam saw the elf offer up what was obviously a prayer of thanks although, as he spoke in one of the elvish tongues, he had no idea who he addressed. Sam added his own thanks to whomever it was anyway.

Drawn by their words Aragorn bent close over their charge and smiled as he saw Frodo’s chest rise a little further on his next inspiration. “He is past the worst,” he announced upon a sigh. Sam simply dropped on his bottom like a stringless puppet and wept.

“He cannot go on to Mordor. He is too weak. It would be best for him if we all made for Minas Tirith. There he can rest and regain his strength before continuing his journey.” Boromir was trying to persuade Sam, apparantly believing that of all of them he would want comfort for his master.

Once more it was Aragorn who replied however. “I will not allow Frodo and the Ring within ten miles of your city and its Steward.”

“And who appointed you leader? Who are you to speak of allowing or not allowing? You made it clear in the Golden Wood that you did not know which path Gandalf wanted to take.” Boromir retorted. “Our Ringbearer is in no fit state to make any decisions at present. So it falls to his friends to make them for him.” He smiled down at Sam, who was jointing a coney.

“Begin’ your pardon, Sir,” Sam started. 

Pippin held back a grin. Anyone who understood Sam Gamgee knew that was not a good start to one of his statements. He waited for him to continue.

“You’re a good man and very handy in a tight corner, as my Gaffer would say, but I’ve known Stri . . . Mr Aragorn a lot longer than I’ve known you. He’s seen us through some hard times, before we even met you. He didn’t steer us wrong then and I trust him to keep us on the right road now. So, without meaning to be rude, I think I’d like to stick with him and stay away from your city.” Sam went back to his work, dropping the pieces into a pot of boiling water.

Boromir spared Aragorn a glare before stomping off into the woods once more. “We need more firewood,” was his only comment.

Time became fluid for Frodo. The blazing agony of his nightmare seemed to go on forever. From flame he was plunged into ice that shot arrows of pain down his limbs in echo of past illness. Then there were periods of peace that seemed to pass all too swiftly before he was overtaken by fire once more and the whole cycle would repeat itself.

Sometimes Frodo stumbled on Caradras; his feet numb with cold or felt again the searing icy pain of a blade in his shoulder. At other times he fell with Gandalf in the fiery arms of the wizard’s nemesis. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, all faded to grey nothingness. 

Frodo surfaced just in time to see the first rays of a glorious sunrise. At first he thought he was back in the fire of his nightmare but there was no pain this time, unless it be a pounding headache again.

“Are you awake, cousin?” It was a tentative voice and Frodo slowly rolled his head to bring its owner into focus. He was met by Merry’s hopeful face, which broke into a grin when he saw his eyes focus at last. “Hello Frodo. You’re back.”

“Where . . . " Frodo swallowed in a parched throat. “Where have I been?”

Merry’s grin faded. “Well. Wherever it was I’m glad I wasn’t with you. It didn’t look like a fun place to be.”

Aragorn hunkered down beside them. “How are you feeling?”

Frodo frowned. How was he feeling? He was feeling warm but not hot. He moved a finger experimentally and found that it responded readily to his command. It encountered soft fur and he let his gaze drop to find that he was wrapped in Boromir’s fine cloak. At once, a feeling of panic assailed him, to drop away again as soon as his questing hand found the ring, still on its chain about his neck. He looked up to see the tall warrior standing behind Aragorn and discovered a strange closed look upon his face. 

“We couldn’t keep you warm so Boromir gave you his cloak.” Pippin explained helpfully.

Boromir merely shrugged.

“Thank you.” Frodo was distracted from further enquiry as Legolas handed a cup to Aragorn.

“Come on. Let me help you. Your throat must be parched. We did not manage to get as much liquid down you as I would have liked and I suspect that has resulted in a headache.” Aragorn slipped a strong arm beneath Frodo’s head and held the cup to his lips. 

That was all the invitation Frodo needed and he did not stop swallowing until it was drained. Had anyone asked him later what was contained in that cup he would not have been able to tell them. He only knew that it was one of the most wonderful drinks he had ever tasted in his life.

Once Aragorn lowered him onto his pillow again he felt well enough to try and make sense of his situation. “I’ve been ill, haven’t I?”

“You have. But you are over the worst,” Aragorn assured him. “We just need to build you up again and Sam is working on that as we speak.” 

“I remember now. Fireleaf. I had a terrible headache and tingling in my hands and feet.” Frodo tried to piece together the rest. “There were awful nightmares. Did I have a fever?”

“You did. But it has broken. Now drink the broth that Sam has prepared for you. Boromir trapped some coneys and Sam has worked his usual magic with herbs.” He moved aside to make way for a smiling Sam. It was Legolas who helped support Frodo while Merry propped up his cousin with more bundled up blankets. That’s when Frodo saw it.

“Legolas. However did you get that black eye? It’s a real shiner.” 

To his surprise Gimli hooted with laughter but Legolas only smiled. “Perhaps I will tell you one day.”

END


End file.
